Bruce lowered himself slowly into his chair at the kitchen table, his tailbone aching after a particularly brutal fall from a warehouse the night before. He eyed the potatoes and gravy and other assortments of meats and vegetables laid out on the table— when was the last time he had eaten? Did he even have dinner last night? As far as he was concerned, food was simply a necessity, not a luxury, so he sometimes didn't bother to remember his last meal.
His mind had been occupied with his latest case on drug trafficking involving Killer Croc. He was up until around nine this morning working on a lead, so there was no time to eat then. Before that, he had gone to Meredith's office.
Meredith's office.
He knitted his brow, thinking about the previous night. Devin, much to Bruce's chagrin, had been right. Meredith couldn't be working with them. There had already been an attempt on her life once in the first five days of her partnering with the League, and he still hadn't figured out who hired Deadshot, on top of the new drug running rampant through the streets of Gotham. There was no time to eat. Or sleep. Or be sitting here thinking about everything he needed to do— he had to go out and do them. He needed his cowl and his car and he had to go to Belle Reve and question Floyd Lawton and—
Damian rounded the hall, striding into the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his back. The look on the small boy's face was the exact same one Bruce had on right now— that never got any less disturbing. He sat in his chair next to Bruce at the informal table that they used when it was only the two of them, instead of the usual long one in the dining room. Tim was away on business with the Titans, Dick had gone back to Bludhaven, and Jason was... off doing something that Bruce probably didn't want to know about. Sometimes it was better to live in ignorance.
Bruce's gaze settled back on the potatoes as Devin's words suddenly played in his head: I can not still be mediating your fights with Meredith because of your bullshit excuse of how she won't listen to you.
That's because Meredith didn't listen. It wasn't a bullshit excuse. Bruce was in a corner and couldn't do anything about it. Meredith and her nonchalant, half-assed answers. Her dumb coffee and the way she now knew whenever he was in her office, with her teasing smile and the way she chuckled at what he said— what Batman said. Meredith Elias should not be chuckling with Batman, and Batman should not be giving her anything to chuckle at.
He squared his jaw. He wasn't going to announce to the public that it was all a lie because that puts the reputation of the League at risk. Why didn't he push harder in her office? Why didn't he demand that she leave? He had snuck into her building twice now, both times with a speech prepared in mind, knowing exactly what he needed to say, and both times leaving with absolutely nothing accomplished.
And the way she touched him. She touched him. Why did he let her do that? Why did he leave when she decided they were finished with the conversation, dismissing him like some schoolboy? People didn't dismiss Batman.
Alfred walked around the island with two glasses of ice water in his hands, placing them on the table. Bruce noticed Damian's attention switch to the butler.
"Pennyworth?"
"Yes, Master Damian?"
"What can you tell me about Meredith Elias?"
Bruce's eyes snapped up from the potatoes. He saw Alfred pause whatever he was doing near the stove.
After what was probably a moment of choosing his words, Alfred responded. "May I ask why?"
Damian looked almost bored, cocking his head. "I met her the other day."
"Did you, now?" Alfred turned a hard look to Bruce, who kept his face blank.
Bruce knew Damian had seen the albums. Those stupid fucking books. He had forgotten that he had tucked them back in the study— of course Damian would have found them. Bruce wasn't sure why he'd kept them, either. They were some meaningless gifts from a young Meredith Elias for some holiday that he couldn't remember.
After the Central City mess, he had come back to the manor and placed them in his father's now-empty gun safe, one of the only spots left in the house that Bruce's children had yet to find. He knew Dick was going to go looking for them, and that was a conversation that Bruce wasn't willing to have. His eldest son meeting Devin was bad enough.
"Yes. She seemed rather... competent. Unlike her fatuous brother who referred to father as short."
Alfred's features softened at the mention of Devin, before turning his tone curt once again. "I see."
Bruce moved his stare back to the food.
"I'm afraid I do not know much, Master Damian. Thomas and Martha Wayne were friends with Ms. Elias' parents, but I have not seen Gregory or Eleanor in many years."
Damian didn't respond, which was unusually bizarre. The youngest boy was never satisfied with that vague of an answer.
The phone rang— a single landline connected to the wall near the door— the only thing that Bruce had kept intact when he'd remodeled the kitchen years ago. It was his mother's favorite. It never rang anymore.
Alfred furrowed his brows as he walked over and gingerly held the phone up to his ear. "Wayne Manor, this is Alfred Pennyworth speaking."
Alfred's eyes widened, and Bruce now angled his body in suspicion. Bruce could count the amount of people on one hand who still had the number to that phone, and none of them he wanted to talk to.
"Of course... yes, one moment, please." Alfred pressed the phone into his shoulder and looked up. "It's Mr. Queen, sir."
Bruce's heart fell into his chest. He shouldn't have cared, he really shouldn't have, but the Star City vigilante hadn't directly called his house in over twenty years, and Bruce couldn't help not automatically assuming the worst. What if something had happened? Oliver always just waited until the next League meeting to bring up any concerns.
No. It's probably something stupid. Oliver could handle himself.
That deep and foreign and forgotten part of his brain, the part that Bruce couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried, fought desperately against the Bat. What if someone's injured or what if someone's dead or what if he's dying— no, no. Not possible. Green Arrow, while a persistent pain in Bruce's ass, was a good fighter.
And besides, if something had happened, Bruce doubted that he'd be the first one Oliver would call.
The Bat won out.
He turned his body to face the table. "Tell him I'm busy."
Alfred relayed the information before pausing again and pressing the phone back into the crisp lapel of his suit. "He insists, sir."
Bruce let out a breath of air, ignoring Damian's pointed gaze as the older man got out of his chair. Pain flared from his tailbone, making his way around the island and taking the phone from Alfred's hand.
Oliver Queen was not dying and Bruce wasn't going to answer the phone and hear the blond bleeding out on the other end because Alfred would've been more concerned if that was true and Oliver wasn't going to be dead after this call— shut up. Shut up.
"What."
"You have some serious fucking issues, you know that?"
Relief flooded his body. Oliver was angry. Angry was not bleeding out on the floor and dying.
"What's so important that you feel the need to call my house?"
"The fact that you're the most hypocritical bastard I've ever known in my entire life." There were the muted sounds of background noise, something like a car door opening and slamming shut. "You seriously have the audacity to tell us how we need to stay away from Meredith, but you're showing up in her office every night?"
Bruce hesitated. How did Oliver know about that?
He met Damian's inquisitive stare from across the room and sighed in frustration. "This isn't important."
"Not important?" Oliver's voice raised. "What the fuck is wrong with you? How can you pin this whole Meredith mess on me, when you're actively visiting her as you know who! Are you trying to get caught or something?"
"It was twice," Bruce lowered his voice to a hiss to keep Damian from outright hearing everything. Damn Oliver for calling the only phone that was attached to a wire on the wall, forcing Bruce to take the call in the kitchen. "To convince her to leave."
An emotionless laugh. "And how'd that work out? I heard she's still showing up on Wednesday!"
"You know exactly why that didn't work out."
"Yes! Yes, Bruce, I do!" A frustrated grunt. "It's what I told you! If Meredith gets involved, she won't listen. And then that all went to shit because... because you have no balls or something, I don't know. And so, fine. Whatever. Now that she's here and we can't do anything about it, I thought the plan was to leave her alone. Not show up in her office to fulfill your little boy fantasies."
Bruce's anger spiked and his knuckles whitened around the tan phone. He was not going to lose it. He wasn't going to lose it. He wasn't going to lose it because Damian was in the room and the boy didn't need anything else to fuel his curiosity.
"Why don't you do something about it, then."
"Oh my G-— that's the whole point! I'm the only one not doing anything, like we planned. Do you know her and Clark are going out for drinks tomorrow?"
Whatever Bruce had planned to say died in his mouth. Drinks? Fucking Clark. At least Bruce was showing up to see Meredith strictly for business, not for frivolous activities outside of the League. Why would Meredith even agree to that?
"I don't care what he does."
"You don't care? What do you mean, you don't care? Get your team under control, oh great and mighty Bat."
Bruce allowed himself to roll his eyes. Codenames were not to be used outside of League-issued communicators, not that Oliver obviously cared. "What happened to you owning just as much of the League as I do?"
Silence.
"You know what? Whatever. Whatever. I don't give a fuck. Go keep visiting her and make out with her or have hot sex as Batman like you always do with women out of your league because you're too scared to do it as Bruce Wayne, then deny it and blame it on us when Meredith takes all of your money. See if I care."
That was it. He was raising his voice and telling Oliver to shut the hell up and slamming the phone back into the holder on the wall. How dare Oliver call his house, knowing exactly the right things to say to push his buttons, just to blow off steam and accuse Bruce of shit that wasn't his fault.
He found his chest heaving and his jaw wired shut, and then he realized he was still in the kitchen. He let the tension release from his body.
Damian looked utterly intrigued, and Bruce internally groaned. Great. He would probably pay for losing his cool, most likely in the form of Damian sticking his nose somewhere he shouldn't be.
"What was that about, father?"
Bruce walked back to the table, grabbing a plate and a spoon and barely paying attention to what food he was taking. After the white porcelain was filled, he turned around and walked out of the room.
"Nothing. I have work to do."
Which was true. He did have a lot of work. But he also didn't want to sit there under Alfred's scrutinizing gaze. Bruce would probably be forced into a conversation about that later.
* * *
The next day, Meredith pulled up in a deep blue Mercedes outside of a bustling Metropolis bar. It was dusk, painting the streets and the tall buildings with an orange glow. For Gotham and Metropolis being relatively close, Metropolis' weather was always astronomically better. Not very fair, in Meredith's opinion, but that at least meant she got to wear her favorite black turtleneck in September without an oversized coat.
She found parking on the side of the road, grabbing her phone and the car key as she stepped out. When she slammed the door shut, she heard her name being called. She turned around to find Clark Kent staring at her from across the street with a bright grin.
Maybe that's why the Metropolis weather was so good— Superman's smile kept the rain and thunder of Gotham away.
When he had asked her to go for drinks yesterday morning, she'd almost said no. But Meredith soon realized that, when Superman shows up outside of your office window seventy-five floors in the air, looking like some sort of Greek god, it was hard to say no. He had apparently "just been in the area."
Hm. Yeah, right.
He looked both ways before crossing the street, which Meredith found incredibly ironic. It's not like a car hitting him was going to do much damage to anything other than the car itself. He jogged up to her in a maroon flannel and jeans, with his ridiculous thick-framed glasses sitting on his nose.
"Clark, hey." She gave him a short smile.
"Hey." His eyes turned towards the vehicle and slightly widened. "Wow, that's a really nice car."
She tilted her head, her smile now a little more playful. "Thanks. Want it?"
He looked startled, mouth falling open as he stuttered. "Wh— I— What do you mean?"
"The car," she smirked. "Do you want it?"
"You— And— Meredith, you can't just... you can't just give me a car."
"Why not? You said you liked it, and it's one of my more casual ones. I was planning on getting the newest model in a few weeks, so this was just going to go to waste, anyway." She pressed the key into his hand. "There. Take it. It's yours."
He stared at her with the most incredulous look, like she was the one who could fly and shoot lasers from her eyes. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, glancing repeatedly between the keys in his hand, the car, and her. "You can't just meet someone for, like, a week, and then give them a car that's worth— do I even want to know how much that costs?"
"Probably not."
"I— I can't accept this, Meredith."
"You can, you just don't want to."
"I was taught that you can never accept gifts over two hundred dollars. And even that's a stretch."
"It's only, like, sixty grand."
"Sixty grand?!"
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm not a billionaire!"
"Exactly, and I am. If you don't take it, it's just going to sit in my garage. Besides, it's your color and a four-door. That's enough room to comfortably seat America's sweetheart. It's like it was meant for you."
"I don't even need a car! I can, you know, fly."
"Everyone needs a nice car, Clark."
"It's a depreciating asset."
"Good thing you didn't pay for it."
"I don't even have anywhere to put it."
"Does your apartment building— I assume you live in an apartment— have underground parking?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"Then it's settled. Stop freaking out, this is just like me buying you dinner."
"I've never had a dinner that costs sixty thousand dollars!"
"You haven't?" She gave him a grin as she turned around and walked around the car. She stepped onto the sidewalk, miraculously not getting any looks of recognition from people passing by, and entering the bar.
"You have?" Clark asked from behind her.
"Did you lock your car, Clark?"
"It's not my car."
"You should lock it. It would be a shame if it got stolen before you even drove it once."
She heard him huff in frustration and fumble with the key for a moment, before taking a few long strides to catch up to her once again. The bar was more upper-end, not exactly to Meredith's usual caliber, but it was still nice. People were dressed casually, laughing with friends at tables and booths around the room. A long bar was placed in the middle, with a familiar reporter and a young, red-headed man seated at the counter.
"How are you even going to get home?" Clark questioned next to her.
"You can just drive me. It'll be a good way to test it out." She smiled at Lois, who just noticed Meredith and Clark. "Or I'll just go to the dealership down the street and buy a new one. Doesn't really matter to me."
Clark scoffed in disbelief as they approached the bar counter.
"Hey you two," Lois greeted as she stood up. "We just had them clear a table for us. Did you guys come together?"
Meredith shook her head as she followed Lois to a tall, square table with barstools. "No, but Clark may have to take me home."
Lois looked questioning as she pushed herself onto the stool.
Clark sighed, holding up the key in his hand. "Meredith is trying to give me her car."
"I did give him my car," Meredith smirked, sitting across from Clark.
"I told you I can't accept it."
"Uh, well, if you don't, Smallville, I gladly will." Lois nudged Meredith's arm. "I'm sure it probably costs more than my salary."
"I told him he needs a nice car," Meredith explained. "He can't be a well-known Daily Planet reporter and not have a nice car."
"Hey, I don't have a nice car!" Lois pointed out.
"When's your birthday?"
"Three months."
"We'll see." Meredith gave her a wink and Lois laughed.
"I'll hold you to that, Elias." Lois suddenly gestured to the redhead that sat to Meredith's right. "Oh, and this is Jimmy. You've met before."
He was younger, probably around twenty-eight, with brown eyes and freckles along the bridge of his nose. He gave her a polite smile and a nod. "Nice to see you again under less dire circumstances, Ms. Elias."
She chuckled at the memory— they were in the middle of a superhero fight in downtown Metropolis. She had barely caught his face as he was driving away in a news van with Lois. "It's Meredith. And likewise."
The waiter walked over and placed two drinks in front of Lois and Jimmy, turning to Meredith, who ordered just a hard seltzer, and Clark who asked for water.
"You don't drink, Kent?" Meredith questioned.
"Not when I'm apparently driving." He gave her a teasing glare.
She blew out a sharp breath of amusement as a tall glass of seltzer was put on the table. "Good answer."
"So, Meredith, tell me," Lois started. "How's it going, being a billionaire, philanthropist, princess of Gotham, and all."
"Is that what they're calling me now?" She raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of the fizzy drink.
"That's what they've always said. You and Wayne— the princess and the prince."
Meredith scoffed. She didn't need to be associated with that loser any more than she already was. "Please, for my sake, none of you ever include that in an article."
"Maybe if you buy me that car, I'll think about it." Lois smiled.
Meredith rolled her eyes before Jimmy finally spoke again.
"Can I ask you a question, Ms. E— er, Meredith? It's a little... weird, though."
She raised a brow. "You can ask, but I can't guarantee I'll answer."
"Is it..." He let out a nervous chuckle. "Is it true that Bruce Wayne is on steroids now?"
There was a moment of silence. Meredith's eyes widened and a grin of disbelief pulled at her lips. Clark burst into rumbling laughter, pearly whites nearly blinding everyone at the table as he doubled over. Jimmy slightly blushed in embarrassment.
"It's just the latest rumor," the younger man explained. "Someone caught a shirtless picture of him in Bora Bora a few weeks ago. The dude's built like a tank."
Meredith bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from joining in on Clark's infectious laughter. Sure, she had thought the same thing about Bruce two weeks ago, but it was different hearing it out loud, and knowing that's what everyone else was thinking. "How would I know that information, Jimmy? It's not like I routinely ask him about his fitness regimen."
"Well, none of us know him at all! I figured you were my best bet." Jimmy shrunk in his seat as if it would stop Clark, and now Lois, who was chuckling herself. "Jeez, it was just a question."
"Apparently, Meredith does know him well." Clark finally straightened himself out. "She was telling me a few days ago about how bad a cook he was."
Meredith rolled her eyes again.
"Is that seriously a surprise?" Lois took a sip of her drink. "The man grew up being waited on hand-and-foot. Hey! Maybe that's my next story— cooking with Bruce Wayne."
Meredith finally let herself laugh, knowing exactly how that segment would go. She could imagine the playboy in the kitchen of his house, looking absolutely confused after being told that you have to put butter on grilled cheese to keep it from burning. "That would be a trainwreck."
The waiter came by again and Jimmy ordered fries for the table. As the employee walked away, Clark had come down from his laughter a second time, gesturing his hands out to get Meredith's attention. "Okay, okay. My turn to ask about a Bruce Wayne rumor— is it true he was friends with Oliver Queen?"
Meredith's smile fell slightly. How did Clark know about that? Very few people did— besides from Jim Gordon and maybe a few of the older Gotham newspapers or paparazzi. Bruce and Oliver didn't talk anymore, were never seen at any events together, and just plainly couldn't stand each other. She was fairly certain she remembered Oliver telling her that they specifically checked the guest list at events to make sure that they didn't end up in the same place at the same time.
Clark must have noticed her confusion. "I saw an old Daily Planet paper in the archives with them on page six. They looked friendly."
Meredith nodded slowly. "Yeah, they were... friends."
The fries were finally delivered to the table, and Clark picked some up. "What happened? I don't ever see them together anymore, and I usually cover all of the charity stuff."
"They just..." She stole a few fries, thinking about how to even start to explain any of that. "Fell out with each other."
"Were they good friends?" Clark asked.
She tilted her head. "Why do you want to know so badly?"
He shrugged. "Like I said, I typically cover the galas. As a reporter, it's good for me to know people's relationships with each other."
She supposed that was a decent answer. "They were... 'best friends,' for a while, I guess is the appropriate term."
"Best friends?" Clark looked genuinely surprised. So genuine that it was almost startling. Why was it starting to seem like he was invested in this for more than just business?
Meredith was now suspicious as she chewed on her fries. "Yeah, it's just... strange now."
"Why?"
"I don't know, they were just such good friends for so long. It's sometimes weird to not see them like that."
"How— how long did they know each other for?"
"Probably since they were five or six."
"Oh."
"Why's that so interesting?"
It was his turn to shrug. "They don't really seem like they'd be friends."
She paused, thinking about his words. She suddenly chuckled. "They were just stupid rich boys who got in over their heads way too often. Believe it or not, Bruce wasn't exactly the 'fun' type growing up. Oliver made him laugh."
Clark made the most bizarre face that Meredith had ever seen on a person. It was indescribable— like a mess of emotions all compiled into one somewhat blank stare. He nodded, tilting his gaze back down to the fries in the center of the table.
Okay, there's definitely something going on there. Meredith would have to question Clark about that later.
"You knew Bruce growing up?" Lois asked, turning her attention to the billionaire.
"Our parents were friends," Meredith said. "We went to the same school."
"Gotham Academy?"
Meredith nodded.
"Then why do you two hate each other so much?"
Meredith opened her mouth, but snapped it shut after a moment. "It's complicated. He's just a douche, and I don't really want to be associated with that anymore."
Lois seemed satisfied by the answer, but Clark didn't. He narrowed his eyes curiously. Why was he so obsessed with what Bruce was doing?
Lois launched into a story about whatever article she was currently writing, something to do with Lex Luthor. There were another thirty minutes of mindless chatter, before Lois got a notification on her phone. She groaned.
"It's Perry," she explained. "Jimmy and I gotta run. This was fun though, let's do it again sometime."
Meredith nodded as she left a hundred-dollar bill on the table. Lois raised her eyebrows.
"Mare, this all hardly cost a hundred bucks."
Meredith waved her hand. "I know. I just hate waiting for change."
The three reporters exchanged brief looks of disbelief as they walked out of the bar. Lois and Jimmy said their goodbyes, promising to have the next get-together in Gotham.
Meredith turned to Clark. "So, are you driving me back? Or are you going to make me go to the dealership?"
He frowned, giving her a teasing glare. He finally huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'll take it—"
She gave him a smile.
"If—"
She frowned.
"—You let me take you home."
She stared suspiciously at his mischievous look. "That's what I just said. You can drive me back home."
"No, no. Not drive."
She narrowed her eyes. What could he possibly...? Oh. Oh.
"Don't be crazy, Kent. I fly private, not Air Superman."
He chuckled, tilting his head back. "Come on, it's not that bad. Don't you trust me?"
"Not with my life."
"It's fun!"
"I prefer the ground."
"Well, I'm not taking the car if you don't. And it would be a shame if it just sat in your garage."
She glanced to the ground, contemplating. Then she sighed. Was she seriously negotiating her life with a journalist?
"Clark, if you even think about dropping me—"
He was suddenly laughing and dragging her into a nearby alleyway. Nerves welled in her chest, and for the second time in two weeks, Meredith came to the realization that this job was just absolutely the weirdest thing she'd ever done.
* * *
Hello everyone! The month of May is always very chaotic for me (school/work/etc) so it's nice to take a break and get a new chapter out. I'll be posting a second one today as well! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter :) Thanks for 6k+!
xo Alexa